


So Terrible a Deal

by Esteliel



Series: The Gorbeau House Deal [1]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, M/M, Sex for Favors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 15:58:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2354207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert finds Valjean in the Gorbeau house; Valjean tries to make a deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Terrible a Deal

**Author's Note:**

> I blame the Orson Welles radio drama for making the Gorbeau house scene so tense and dramatic that I could not help but wonder what would have happened had Valjean not been able to take that tension and wait all night.

When the heavy door of the Gorbeau tenement closed with a sound audible even here in their cramped little room, Valjean froze. This was unusual. He had heard the church bells ring in the distance a while ago, and thought that it must be eight in the evening; the old woman certainly had to be in bed, for Cosette was spelling her letters in the light of a candle, whereas the woman would retire with the setting of the sun.

He gestured for Cosette to be quiet as he looked towards the door, careful not to make a sound. He sat completely motionless, listening with the terror of the convict who too often had escaped only to be captured again and again when there was a first thud, and then another. Step by step, somebody was climbing the old stair. He shuddered, his heartbeat echoing in his ear as he sat frozen in his chair for a long moment. Then, he turned to Cosette, who looked up at him with infinite trust, and the old, familiar terror of the convict who feels the hunter close was replaced by an even greater terror – his old heart, which had known love for the first time, now was threatened by its absence. To have the child torn from him, that was a greater torment than to imagine decades in the galley, to slave and starve and die beneath the lash at last.

No, he thought, his heartbeat loud in his ears as his fear rose to an even greater level. No, he could not give this up, not when Cosette depended on him. He blew out the candle, then raised a finger to his lips to motion her to be quiet. 

"Get into bed very softly," he said, his voice no more than a whisper, and Cosette, the starved little lark who had learned from an early age to be quiet and hide from the anger of Madame Thenardier, followed his order without protest, her tiny little feet making no sound as she slipped into her bed in the dressing-room with Catherine in her arms.

The steps on the stair had stopped. He thought again of that mendicant he had seen at the well, that one moment of recognition when fear had gripped him and he had thought that he had recognized the face of Javert. He did not dare to breathe. The passing minutes seemed like hours. Sweat beaded at his brow; when he dared to turn his neck at last, he saw that candle light spilled through the keyhole, and it seemed to him that all his fears had come true. There stood Javert, in front of his door, holding a candle, aware that on the other side of the door sat Jean Valjean, who had run from him for so long. What was there to be done?

His terror seemed to consume him. He thought of the weight of the iron chain again; he thought of the chillblains on those small, red hands, the tiny child abandoned on the streets once more. The pain of that thought was unbearable; his gaze was drawn to the light that fell in from the keyhole, and he saw before him a choice: to do nothing, to wait, frozen with dread, until Javert would enter, force the door with his men, pull Cosette from her folding bed and make her watch as they slapped irons on him, her last view of him that of a wretched convict as she was taken to another place of misery. That was one choice. But there was another, he thought in anguish as he looked upon the darkness that surrounded the small star of light that was the keyhole. There was one other choice – to take the path that lead straight to his hunter, to brave whatever misery might follow, if only it would see Cosette safe. Was that so terrible a deal to make? 

He looked at the light; it did not waver, and at last he made up his mind and rose. Every step towards the door was torment. There was the money; he might buy himself a pardon yet, he told himself as he reached out a trembling hand. The money meant nothing to him; he would gladly give it all and live until the end of his days in poverty, as long as the child was safe by his side. Javert might not listen, but certainly his superior--

He opened the door, and there before him stood Javert, a shadow at the heart of a halo of light, an avenging angel awaiting without mercy. There was a great and terrible surprise on his face; for one moment, the light of the candle wavered as Javert took an instinctive step back when Valjean stepped through the door and closed it behind himself. Then, Javert's eyes filled with triumph, and Valjean found that he could not speak. Terror tightened his throat; he met Javert's eyes and shuddered to see himself recognized there. All thought of mentioning the money was gone, and what remained was fear and the dread of what was to come, the iron around his neck, the chain at his leg, the endless misery – and above all, that small, pale face filled with tears, huddling in a forgotten alley, another gamin lost in the streets of Paris without father or mother.

His lips parted; he wanted to plead, but no sound came out. Javert's breath was hot on his face when he laughed; the sound was terrible, so that Valjean shuddered again, but he was too deep in the grasp of terror to resist when Javert put down his candle in a small alcove, and raised his cudgel to press it slowly against Valjean's throat.

“I knew it was you.” There was a great triumph in his voice. Valjean shivered, and still did not resist, even when Javert leaned closer. Valjean was in his shirtsleeves, wore no cravat, for he had not thought to go out tonight. Now the wood of the cudgel pressed against his bare skin, hard and unyielding, and he felt the frightened flutter of his pulse against it. 

Javert's lips had twisted into a small smile. Here was the cat that had caught the mouse at last; Valjean, who knew himself trapped in a corner, trembled again, and Javert's smile widened. “Did you recognize me, there at the well? I knew you would run again, but you are not as fast or as smart as you think. Word spreads quickly among the beggars, Valjean, that here there is a strange old man who hands out sous to the gamin as though he grew them in a garden.”

“Please, Javert...” He hardly recognized his own voice; it was rough, desperate, and when he reached out a hand to rest it against Javert's shoulder as if in an appeal for a mercy he already knew he would not receive, the man laughed again, that terrible, soundless laugh, and brushed his touch off with his cudgel.

“All your pleading will not help you, Jean Valjean, now that I have found you.” There was a strange tension in Javert. His eyes gleamed with triumph, and some other emotion – almost it seemed like greed to Valjean, that possessiveness of the cat that has driven its prey into a corner; and when Javert reached out to fist the collar of his shirt, he fell to his knees. He thought to plead again, but he could not speak; instead he looked up, and saw Javert towering above him, and some of the triumph seemed to have gone out of his eyes to be replaced by a different sort of tension. For one long moment, they looked at each other. Valjean could not breathe, trembled from what he saw in Javert's eyes and what he felt twist in his own stomach, a viper curling within his heart; then Valjean, barely able to believe what he was doing, turned his face, and his cheek pressed against Javert's trousers.

There, beneath the roughness of the wool, Javert's prick had begun to harden; Valjean shuddered again, his nerves nearly getting the better of him – but then he made himself think of the child, who had no one but him, and opened Javert's trousers with trembling fingers. He did not dare to look up. Without that look of triumph on Javert's face, it was easier to pretend that he might do this for a different reason, and when he swallowed and moistened his lips, uncertain and afraid and shamefully unable to look away from what he had uncovered, he heard a small, choked sound of disbelief escape Javert. 

Javert was still half-soft, but now, under the gaze of Valjean, he hardened further. Slowly, Valjean leaned forward; the crown of Javert's cock felt strangely soft and slick as it pushed past his lips, and he had to stretch his jaw wider than he had thought to allow it in. A nervous sound escaped him at the taste dragged all over his tongue; above him, Javert made a strangled moan, and then there was a hand in his hair, and his head was gently pulled up so that their eyes met. Valjean shivered, mortified, helpless, desperate to drown himself in this abasement until it washed away all thought, all shame. 

His lips stretched wide around Javert's prick. The crown of it rested on his tongue, heavy and strange; the taste of Javert, thick and heavy and salty, spread in his mouth, an intrusion of his body he had never known before, until it felt as if all he could taste and breathe was the thickness of Javert's desire. His flush deepened; somewhere within him, a different heat awoke at the thought of Javert finding release in his mouth, of swallowing that taste, being filled by it, and he moaned again, nervous, uncomfortable.

Javert's eyes darkened, and he had to hold himself up with one hand against the wall.

“My God,” he said, shocked,“ah, Valjean... what...”

Tentatively, Valjean rested a lightly curled hand against Javert's thigh. He tried to breathe around the thick shape in his mouth, felt around it curiously with his tongue, and then Javert groaned again when his tongue rubbed past the tip, and the hand in his hair tightened as Javert pushed himself deeper inside.

Javert moaned helplessly; Valjean made a choked sound, still looking up in shame-filled obedience although now, there were tears forming in the corner of his eyes. 

“Christ, Valjean...” Javert's face was a grimace of terrible need. The hand in his hair trembled, and Valjean, choking and terrified and still curling his hands in fists against Javert's thighs to keep himself from desperately rubbing the growing hardness between his own legs, kept his eyes open, kept looking at Javert, allowed him to have his fill of the lewd sight he must make, with his mouth stretched wide around Javert's cock and his eyes filling with tears. It made no difference, he told himself as he shivered and sucked some of that slickness from the tip of his cock when Javert drew back, still so clumsy that he felt some of his own spit drip down his chin and flushed with new shame. 

To do penance on his knees, was that not a holy thing? What right had he, the sinner, to approach the cross and the altar – but he could kneel here, and prove himself humble, and pray that through his abasement, the child would be safe. To offer up his pride for such a gift was not very much, not when his pride had been taken from him years ago.

Javert's cock was very heavy on his tongue, and he swallowed, tightened his mouth around the shape. Javert looked down at him from eyes that were dark and dazed, though he still held on to his cudgel, and Valjean's cock pressed with an insistent ache against his own trousers. He had never done such a thing before – had heard it talked about in Toulon, seen it once or twice, but had never paid much notice to it. Now, the ache of his knees, and the scrutiny of those merciless eyes combined with the strange physicality of that heavy, hard cock stretching his lips made something within him tremble, and he feared that Javert might be able to see it in him – feared that a part of him almost wished Javert would see it. A choked whimper escaped him at the thought of what Javert might do; he flattened one hand, smoothed it up and down the tense muscles of Javert's thigh as if to distract himself, and then Javert's hand tightened in his hair almost to the point of pain. With a groan, Javert pulled back so that the crown of his cock pressed heavily down onto his tongue, and then it jerked against him, and the thick, warm spend flooded his mouth, and Valjean tried not to cough, and not to helplessly spend himself at the way Javert's eyes never left his own through all of it.

When Javert's prick finally slipped out of his mouth, he swallowed what was on his tongue, coughed, nearly moaned again from the terrible, impossible need that tormented him still with every pulse of his blood. Javert was still watching him, silent now and unreadable; Valjean licked self-consciously at his swollen lips, flushed with shame at the way he must look, and aware that it was a small price to pay for a man like him, who longed to claim an angel for his child when he was but a sinner.

Javert did not speak as he looked at him; Valjean could not speak. His throat was tight; he feared he would cough, or worse, plead again, and he could not even say whether he would plead for his freedom or to be free of that near unbearable ache between his legs. At last, Javert reached out – Valjean forced himself not to flinch back, and when Javert's large hand touched him, it was with a strange hesitancy. His fingers trembled slightly as he moved to wipe some of his come from Valjean's lip; Valjean, in his despair, pressed his lips to that hand, to plead even though he had no words for it.

For one moment, Javert moved his hand to cup Valjean's cheek, his eyes full of disbelief; the touch was so light it could barely be felt, but Valjean, who had not been touched with gentleness since his childhood, turned his head to lean into the touch with terrible, embarrassed guilt for one long heartbeat.

There was another strangled sound; Valjean could not even say whether it came from his own lips or Javert's, but then, suddenly, there was a pressure between his legs, and a soft cry escaped him that was almost a sob. When he opened his eyes, he saw that Javert had pushed the cudgel down to rest between his legs, angling it so that the hard wood pressed along the line of his prick, and when Valjean looked up, he saw that Javert was breathing heavily. Strands of hair had escaped from his queue, framing his face in disarray. There was a wildness to his eyes that Valjean had not seen before, and for one long moment of torment, he gave in to the heat that burned in his veins and pressed himself against the cudgel, his lips falling open as his body tensed. He could not take his eyes from Javert's face; there was no more triumph there, no more glee, but instead a strange focus; there was no softness to Javert either, but instead, something burned inside him that for one moment, Valjean thought he recognized in himself as well.

He trembled on the edge of climax, pinned in place by Javert's gaze and the hard length of his cudgel, straining against the wood as though it were Javert – and then, it was too much, and he could not bear the thought of pleasure, not when he had come to pay penance on his knees. The guilt that rose within him made him remember what was at stake, and that Javert would not let him go, not even after he had given him his pride, for it was his freedom he wanted, not his abasement. 

Javert's eyes were dark, his lips bruised as if he had bitten them to keep himself from making a sound. Valjean found himself watched still, flushed again with terrible shame at how he must look, and still allowed Javert to spread his legs wider with the cudgel, allowed Javert to see that damning line of his hard cock where it pressed against his trousers with an insistent ache. He could not think; he could not bear the shame of what Javert's thoughts might be, but the stretch and the ache in his thighs was good, and he moaned again, nearly choking on the sound, when Javert slowly drew his cudgel against his cock again.

“Open your trousers,” Javert said, his voice rough, and Valjean shuddered fearfully and nearly spent himself at those words. He imagined it for one moment: baring his shame to Javert's heated gaze, imagined what the smooth wood would feel like pressed to his aching flesh, daring to imagine for the duration of one heartbeat the feeling of a large, warm hand closing around him... The thought drew a strangled moan from him, Javert's lips parted, and Valjean shivered at the heat of his gaze, trembling there at Javert's feet as he tried to resist the wave of shamed need that rushed through his veins and urged him to give in, to give himself over to this, to know at last what it would be like to be touched. One hand he moved toward his trousers – the other reached out for Javert's thigh again, as if to hold himself up, and only when the cold iron of his own handcuffs clicked shut around Javert's wrist did Javert realize what he had done instead.

“I am sorry,” Valjean said with great helplessness, once he had chained Javert to an old bed in one of the derelict, empty chambers in the attic. His cock still ached; he bore the pain as something he deserved. His hands were very gentle when he touched Javert, though Javert bristled and flinched back regardless. “I am sorry, Javert, truly. You can shout if you want; the old woman is asleep, and she will not hear you until she rises tomorrow.”

Javert's chest was heaving from the useless effort of escaping the cuffs; the eyes that had been dark and dazed with pleasure so that for one moment, kneeling before him had kindled a strange heat in Valjean, were now filled by hot, impotent rage.

“You should kill me, Valjean. Take your revenge.”

Valjean reached out a hand; his fingers shook, and instead of touching Javert's cheek, he brushed back the strands of hair that had escaped. “I am sorry,” he said again, and then flushed once more at having Javert's eyes on him. He moistened his lips, then looked away when his embarrassment deepened at the way Javert's eyes slid towards where his cock was still pressing insistently against his trousers, humiliating him with this need that should not be. 

“I... I tried to pay in what way I could,” he said, and his voice nearly broke at what he knew was no explanation, and not payment enough for the joy he was claiming for himself. All of a sudden, he could not bear Javert's eyes on him anymore. His mouth tasted of his spend; he felt sickened by how it was not unpleasant when it should be, mortified by the way that even now his cock ached at the memory of Javert heavy and hard on his tongue, and he turned to leave. Javert was shouting for him; he ignored it, but his fingers shook as he bent in the hallway to take hold of the cudgel. He left it in the small alcove where Javert's candle was still burning, then took a deep breath, and entered their room once more. Cosette slept on until he had everything packed and the money retrieved from the cupboard; by the time he was ready, Javert's hoarse, angry shouts had stopped, and his cock had reluctantly softened. He did not look at the cudgel or the candle when he left with Cosette in his arm; he had thought of leaving a note on the table, but what was there to say?

“I am sorry,” he said again, so softly that it was barely audible. Cosette moved in his arms to trustingly rest her head on his shoulder and smile at him, and he smiled back at her, and felt his heart expand with love, and tried to leave his sadness behind in the corridor with the cudgel and the candle and the memory of things he knew he could never think of again.


End file.
